


Plotting

by bree darcy (percyval)



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Depression, Past Basil/Henry, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percyval/pseuds/bree%20darcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the night drags, and Basil's emotions all but drain, he wonders how he could actually go through with it. And he stares at the moon, and watches the stars, and imagines all the galaxies he could never visit in his lifetime.</p><p>And he crumples down deep into his bed, the liquid finally taking his desired effect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plotting

Basil places his hands over his chest, and stares up at the stars. His eyes shimmer deeply, just like the glowing balls in the sky, watering with tears that glow like silver moonlight.

He closes his eyes, and breathes in and our hard, trying to regain his composure. He's alone, but he can't bare to let himself cry about something so pathetic.

And he can't dare keep thinking about it. He can't keep letting himself think about how he'd messed up over the course of about 30 years. Maybe he could just forget about it before it got him in a worse mood.

So he starts trying to talk over those thoughts in his mind, but it doesn't work at all. The most he can do to keep his mind from unraveling was to simply force himself into an unbearable mental silence.

He listens to the sheets of rain slam against his closed window; the stars are blanketed by violent, deep grey rain clouds.

Basil can feel his thoughts try to seep back into his brain, and he almost cries out "Stop it!" in response to their return. He sits up, grabbing at ratted curls of hair, almost tugging out a lock. Never had a night been so unbearable, never had he felt such a need to stop his thoughts like that.

And he tries to distract himself, he wants to push himself out into the rainy night and walk until his joints go sore and stiff and his whole face feels like ice.

Basil gets up, and checks the time. It's only 11. He has time, be it late and dark and raining.

He tugs on his clothes he wore two days in a row already, and he disregards the paint stains and ink splotches at the collar.

Basil pushes past the heavy oak door and into the dark night, popping the collar of his ulster and screwing his hat tighter onto his head.

His deep eyes stare right ahead, he occasionally glances between houses down the block.

The painter walks about fifteen minutes before he finds himself upon Dorian Gray's home.

And his chest goes cold while his face goes hot.

He hasn't seen that home in months, he cannot imagine what has changed since he last saw Dorian.

Basil approaches the gate, and rings the bell, rain drops pattering on the back of his hand.

He rings three times in succession, and a butler rushes out, murmuring under his breath in coarse French.

"Mr. Hallward! Are you here for Mr. Gray?" He asks, the accent like a gentle river.

"Yes, I suppose." The first words Basil had spoken all night.

"Of course," he grins at Basil, he'd always enjoyed the painter's visits.

He opens the wrought iron gates, they swing on their hinges in the rough wind.

Basil steps into the walkway, his feet crunching the gravel underneath them. He glances around the perfectly trimmed and tended-to garden, Dorian's home, on the outside, is absolutely lovely. And he'd only been there only a handful of times before tonight.

The butler walks him in, and leads him into the parlor.

Basil's heart tenses when Henry and Dorian turn to see him.

"Basil?" Dorian asks, and Harry turns away, pulling out another cigarette like he didn't just see Basil again for the first time in about three months.

Dorian claps a hand onto Basil's shoulder, grinning in the way that, while it does still charm him, it looks slimy and forced.

The room is dim and dark around them, and the fireplace pulses when he looks away from it. It feels like Basil walked in on something, and he probably did.

"What were you doing?" He questions Dorian, but his eyes slowly trail over to Harry before he gets his whole sentence out.

Dorian looks down, raking a hand through his hair, and turns his gaze back to Basil, forcing a weak smile.

"Talking," he adjusts the collar of his button-down, "not too intriguing to you, Basil."

Dorian leads Basil to a seat, and sits back down beside Henry. Slinking up against him like a sly cat.

Something is quite unusual.

"Harry, how is Victoria doing?" Basil can barely muster up any small talk.

"Oh," Dorian hisses. "She-"

"Victoria and I separated." Henry responds, all too coldly. "She's found another, _better_ man. One of those law-types. How could she find solace in a man paid to speak truth? It's ridiculous."

Basil sighs to himself. Same old Harry.

"I'm very sorry to hear that." He says, either way, because Basil just wants to be polite and leave a last good impression.

Harry slouches the corner of his mouth, glancing over at Basil.

"Well, what have you been doing?" He seems to be forcing a ruthless attitude for no other reason than he can. And it'll get his desired reaction out of Basil.

And the painter quickly tries to piece his alibi together once again.

"Oh, I have an exhibit in France. I'm going to be gone for six months." He lies through his teeth, his nails digging into his palms.

"Oh. Quite good, Basil."

Basil wants to curse him out. He wants to tell Harry how he's become an awful wreck, and how he misses the kinder, gentler man he once was. That man who defended him at Oxford and made him feel safe. 

He doesn't want to think about who Harry  _was_ anymore. Because he's not that person anymore. And he's never going to be that person ever again. Not in Basil's lifetime, at least.

Dorian turns his head, and smiles at Basil.

"Why did you come so late, Basil? I thought you too responsible to be awake at these late hours."

And Basil gets quiet and tense.

"Well, I couldn't sleep. I'm leaving tomorrow and I didn't wish to force myself into an inconsistent slumber."

Harry takes a slow glance in Basil's direction.

"You should have just kept yourself busy at home. You would have fallen asleep quicker, and now you will leave too early when you finally grow weary enough to rest." He takes a last, long drag off his cigarette and puts it out in the marble bowl on the end table.

Basil says nothing, but keeps his gaze locked with Harry's. That warm, familiar spark has left the whisky-colored irises. That Oxford-age Henry was, in fact, long gone.

Dorian tries to break this awkward silence, the very uncomfortable stiffness between Harry and Basil. 

He knows nothing about the history between the two men, but he's sure something went south during their relationship. Basil's gaze is strangely cold, and Harry, for the first time, looks perfectly discomforted.

He clears his throat. Basil glances over at him, and gives a weak, forced smile.

"You seem a little away tonight, Basil. Are you sure you're feeling alright?" Dorian finally speaks up.

The dreaded question stirs his hazy thoughts, and he feels his mind go blank.

"Yes."

Harry rolls his eyes, and looks away from the painter. He's almost disappointed he showed himself at the house that night, especially so dull and for no clear reason.

"What shall you do for six months in Paris?" Dorian continues to prod.

Basil doesn't appreciate the force that's being placed on him to answer the questions. He's barely even sure why he came here when they aren't going to make this final meeting a meaningful one.

"Look, I should probably be going. Harry's right - I'm not making an effort to be a good conversation piece tonight. I'm very sorry."

He stands up, pulling his coat back on.

But he's stopped by a quick sneer he barely catches when he turns to leave.

"I'm only being honest, Basil. Please stay, we haven't talked with you in ages," Henry tries to bribe him into staying, swirling his drink round in its glass.

Basil hunches his shoulders, and groans slightly. He'll have all the time in the world when he gets home, but he doesn't want to waste his time where he isn't being appreciated.

"I have plans in the morning. It's long past three am and I should be leaving." He turns to look at both of them. The two men are carefully focusing on him.

"Where've you got to be in such a hurry? You certainly could manage to wait a few more minutes."

He feels the anxiety push through him and eat at his mind. His fingers won't steady, and his heart doesn't cease with its tedious and harsh beating. He'd rather be home.

"Well, goodbye, both of you. I really must be gone. I can't focus right now, I'll talk to you as soon as I can manage. Be well." He starts leaving, again, and this time they follow him to the door.

Dorian smiles, and wishes him luck.

Henry gives almost a little tug of a smile at the corners of his lips, and he claps Basil on the shoulder.

"Enjoy Paris. We'll see you in six months."

Basil stumbles home after watching Harry with unfocused eyes and a racing heart. His soles feel heavier than his head and he wishes to simply collapse into a gutter and disappear. It would likely be less painless than the method he'd spent weeks working on.

Rain patters onto his shoulders, dulling the warm sensation that Harry's hand had stirred there. It's all but gone now.

Soon, he'll have no memory of his two closest friends, be they actual friends or not. He'll remember nothing. He'll be dead, he'll be washed off the surface of the world. And no one will care. No one will dare question what happened to poor Basil Hallward.

Because no one cared to even think of him in the first place.

Once he was gone, his paintings would be sealed up in a dusty attic, to collect mold or dry out in the sun. He will be remembered once or twice in passing, but no one will dedicate their thoughts to one ordinary painter.

He curls up, soaking under the light of a streetlamp, crying into folded arms while he thinks about what will surely happen when he passes.

And in no instance is he happy.

But, neither does living as he is now. Constantly alone, hopelessly depressed with no friendly and understanding face to turn to. No one would help him. They'd send him to an institution and remove bits and pieces of his brain, just to "remedy" his ailments.

He couldn't pinpoint the reason he started feeling so poorly, it must have just built up over the course of the past few years. Seeing his friends age and drift away, noticing how no one payed him attention, went out of their way to even say "hello" to him. Couped up in his studio, studying his paintings, but never making anything new. Nothing new since Dorian's portrait.

No one would question his lack of productivity, his butler wouldn't ask why he seemed so keen on sleeping and staying in bed day after day. He didn't have enough energy to bother going out and seeing anybody.

And soon the letters asking what had happened stopped coming in. Agatha hadn't sent him a letter in months, nearly forgetting his existance. Harry sent one whenever he felt like it, updating on his life and nothing more.

Basil ripped up those letters and tucked them under his mattress.

Dorian barely even wrote, only two letters the whole time they knew each other.

Basil couldn't help but feel so alone, so useless and so unimportant.

\- -

He steps up to the front door, and buzzes to be let in.

His butler answers, and only quietly states that Basil is shivering.

He disregards that remark, and goes up to his room, throwing the damp clothes away and putting on something he found crumpled on the floor.

Basil looks up at the ceiling, just letting those awful thoughts eat away at him. He can't believe he's come this far. He's gotten to the execution point.

He looks down at the unlabeled bottle. And he feels tears form. It's not going to be easy.

Basil removes the stopper, and sniffs the liquid. No smell to him.

His eyebrows furrow as he decides if he could possibly do this. There's no way. Someone is going to burst in, they're going to shove the bottle from his hand, and comfort him until he feels enough to not ingest cyanide.

Tears rush down his cheeks, he's never been this weak. It hurts. All of it hurts.

He lifts the bore of the bottle to his lips, and his back shakes while he sobs quietly. No one will care, or hear him.

Basil's eyes meet the sky. He stares, gawking at the constellations and the fading purple of the skyline.

As the night drags, and Basil's emotions all but drain, he wonders how he could actually go through with it. And he stares at the moon, and watches the stars, and imagines all the galaxies he could never visit in his lifetime.  
  
And he crumples down deep into his bed, the liquid finally taking his desired effect.

\- -

News breaks the next day. Properly determined as suicide.

Dorian feels distressed and dismayed, knowing full-well that they could have stopped it. Another person taken from him by that awful monster.

Henry shows some remorse as he reads the small obituary to himself.

"None of this is right. Basil wasn't happy-go-lucky before he died. He was distant and sad. They shouldn't pretend that he was perfectly happy and suddenly decided to kill himself. It was premediated."

"How do you know?" Dorian looks up at him, eyes bright.

"Because they mention he bought cyanide to poison himself. Of _course_ he was planning on killing himself. He didn't just spot it lying around when he felt low, he went out of his way to acquire it. They could have put more effort into his obituary. It just makes him sound like a happy artist type who had a bad day and decided to end it all."

Dorian shakes his head, and looks down at his hands, folded in his lap.

"Did they write when his funeral will be?"

"No. They said that he won't be given a funeral, just a burial. Courtesy of his father, no doubt." Henry rumples the paper, and sets it down before he takes to tearing it.

Dorian decided to say nothing more. He likely heard Basil speak ill of his father before, despite his otherwise good nature.

"What shall we do, then?"

"Whatever we feel like. He's gone now, we should just move on. He'd rather us do that, I'm sure."

Harry abandons the paper, but Dorian takes it. He folds it into his pocket and walks out with his friend.

 


End file.
